Remembering the Devils
by Pollux Unbound
Summary: On one NFL post-game press conference seven years later, Youichi Hiruma finds himself answering questions which bring nothing but sweet old nostalgia. With his thoughts shoring back to the team he once led, he wonders if he will ever again feel the things he felt on a particular Christmas day inside the Tokyo Stadium. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Eyeshield 21. This is not Yaoi... but maybe it is.

…

The dude was one of those rare talents who talked big but hadn't the intellect God gave an insect. Hiruma Youichi liked to call him Fucking Cornrows, and that often drew laughter from the team, without the rest of them realizing he was capable of much harsher modes of address. For one thing, he could've been referring to him as Fucking No-brain. It was ironic, that this dude had to style his hair in a way which seemed to make his head look like an exposed human brain, which he appeared to lack. But because this was the NFL, Hiruma had long ago relinquished his old habit of peppering people with random shots of shotgun shells just because he was annoyed. Neither had he retained the propensity of threatening his teammates with murder or something equally heinous. In short, this was serious business. Going back to the dude in question, his name was Roy Jackson, the Running Back and the ace of the team. Words couldn't quite stress enough how valuable this dude was. Upon his draft, all of them had been quick to presume Jackson was going to be their long-awaited golden ticket to the Super Bowl. With his speed falling nothing short of breathtaking, it wasn't a question why the people involved were forced to worship the ground he walked on. In this case, however, there would always be an exception to the general assumption. Sure enough, everyone besides Hiruma was slow to think otherwise.

Their coach, whatever his virtues might have been, lacked imagination and audacity even more so. This could not have been more manifest in this occasion. With the clock frozen at twenty-one seconds, they, the Argos, were trailing behind by three points, which meant that a field goal was out of the question. Fourteen yards were the gaping rift separating them from sweet victory. Having utilized two Downs and covered nine yards in this particular possession, this play would perhaps decide this game—their lives, ultimately.

"We don't wanna rush and take things the half-assed way. We will take one bloody step at a time, so if we need to, we can utilize two more Downs instead of just one. I say we can even make it to the First down of another set. Twenty-one seconds ought to be a lot of time." the coach proposed.

Whatever his rationale, Hiruma failed to grasp it—even in the slightest degree. This was because gambling was his forte. Of course, he had to listen with repulsion. While the number of viable alternatives swimming inside his mind was stretching to an astounding count, all of them were limited by what probably was reality itself. And so they sallied forth to the field to assume their respective posts, whereas Hiruma turned around to face the Running Back, Jackson, square in the face,

"Listen here, Fucking Cornrows; only a moron would want to prolong this shit to two more Downs. Finish it here and we'll all be hopping mad in the end with joy. If I had a choice I would throw an Everest Pass on the Fucking Gorilla over there. But our Wide Receiver's knees have been prattling for maybe twenty minutes straight now, which means I am left with no fucking option but to _believe_ in your speed. Break through the heart of their defense and I'll ask nothing more."

"You don't have to tell me. I never liked coach's methods anyway. And, oh, you're so _right_ in believing in me." Winking at Hiruma, Jackson clapped his palms against his helmet.

"Hut!"

The ball was snapped, and within seconds it was delegated to its third and final handler, who immediately ran it to the nearest opening. Seeing Jackson sweep cleanly past opponents was always a reminder of a particular "shrimp" Hiruma had been fond of terrorizing, except that there was little to suggest they were of the same grade. Where Jackson was perfectly built and therefore immensely athletic in every sense of the word, the shrimp was short, skinny, and childish in appearance.

And daring.

Spirited.

A real daredevil.

The visual cue that sparked in his mind, and ushered a connection to his past, was chiefly due to the speed he was looking at, and nothing more. The attitude, the determination, indeed the fortitude were different on a grand scale. No, this dude could never have done justice to that other Running Back. Equipped with this notion, Hiruma came to predict what was to be; five minutes later, he and the rest of the team would march dejectedly into the dug-out, tears streaming down the cheeks of some whose emotional stability was questionable.

Once seated inside the enclosure, the coach began to speak frivolities Hiruma would rather not hear. Before long, worse began to follow, as Coach Salerno sat beside the weeping Roy Jackson, as if to assure him they would have better luck next season. In Hiruma's mind, a wholly unexpected feeling was igniting. He fancied their defeat to be a deficiency in everyone's audacity, rather than an accident in the coach's and the RB's decisions. At the same time, images of what had occurred within those last twenty-one seconds were reeling in his head. If it had been the Fucking Shrimp, he'd have catapulted himself skull-first toward the goal line, with as much concern for his spinal column as for his jersey getting muddied. If the Fucking Monkey had been present, he'd have proposed a long pass without his knees prattling. If the Fucking Fatty had been here, he'd have amply demonstrated exactly what his strength could do, thereby raising everyone's morale. If the Fucking Old Man had been around, he'd have made all of them ashamed of their bearing, of their lack of composure. If the Fucking Ha Ha boys…

And so on.

Just then, the manager appeared at the doorway, summoning the coach, Jackson and the quarterback—who happened to be Hiruma himself. Four minutes later, the three of them were seated behind a long table on a platform, a sea of flashing cameras and demure heads staring back at them, microphones pointing at their lips, as if to dare them to speak obscenities, which were ironically dangling at the tip of their tongues already. Press conferences were exactly the sort of things Hiruma had always been fond of manipulating. But tonight, he was finding it anything but pleasant, let alone easy to manipulate. As soon as everyone was subdued, the questions came pouring in, all of which leaving him feeling strangely disembodied. _Why the fuck am I even here? _was the question he asked himself.

"A question for Coach Salerno here."

"Yes?"

"Sir, why were long passes overlooked?"

"Our strength is in Rushing. With this man beside me, everyone ought to have realized that running is our strongest card." Coach Salerno answered, with an accompanying nod at their Running Back.

To any quarterback, the coach's answer would have been insidious in nature, but Hiruma cared little for individual merits. As it was, the nature of the questions served nothing to have his attention fastened on what was being asked, much less on how these questions were answered. And then finally a query was rallied on him, and of course it had to trace the same fault-lines with which its predecessors had suffered,

"Mr. Hiruma, the fact that you followed Coach Salerno's orders down to the last letter is quite surprising. We all know you're pretty famous for changing plans at the last minute—and then succeeding. Does this mean you agreed that handoffs were the best options you got?"

Hiruma eyed the analyst cursorily, but his gaze perhaps equated to a promising answer, if he had the ability to sound promising in the first place. Incidentally, his cynicism came out with words,

"They're the _only_ option."

"Yes, that was plain enough. It shows how tremendous your faith has been on your RB. Judging by the plays you guys carried out earlier, _never_ before has so much trust and confidence been channeled between an RB and a QB."

This was understandably the last remark that was to be uttered in the conference, as the time limit had been reached. To his credit, the analyst was shrewd enough to state an opinion rather than to sneak in a last-ditch question that would've been left unanswered no matter how much anyone insisted. But something in what he had said had stirred Youichi Hiruma. For some reason, the quarterback had yet to vacate his seat and was now staring blankly at the analyst, even as the majority of the reporters, camera men and analysts had proceeded to the next room to interview the victorious party. The coach and Jackson, on the other hand, were too distraught to inquire about whatever it was which was keeping Hiruma seated. On that score, the two had exited the premises. Due to the glare Hiruma had been charging him with, the analyst stood up only after the sea of people had evacuated.

Standing face to face, they both knew either of them had to say something. As for the quarterback, he could not, in honor, allow this person to gain any sort of satisfaction from his false and, on the whole, naive observation. All the more forcefully, his reminiscences were pressing all around him, over and over, and each time they became more and more solid, as if he could be transported back to them if he were to go on allowing himself to think of them. He thought of the words which had struck him dumb in the first place: Trust. Confidence. The words went through him like an insult. These were two of the things, among many, he had not felt for quite a long time now. If his memory could be relied upon, the last time he had had the honor of fostering them were confined within those two whole hours of warfare, once upon a snowing Christmas evening, back in the time when he had been marching in that red and white regalia, under the banner of that sinister-looking mascot whose semblance to himself was all too astonishing. In that enclosure of time, he had lived a lifetime. In a world where devils were scorned and gods were praised, they had tipped the scales and slaughtered the almighty. Within that span of what had felt like forever, he had marched side by side with the most reliable, most fearless runner he had ever met. As a fact, he could've subjected this Running Back to an infinitely debilitating pressure and still, in the end, he would not have failed him, or anyone for that matter. Yes, that fucking chibi would've died, would've risked paralysis if only to bring home victory, whose rich flavor Hiruma was trying to imagine now. He answered just then, several minutes too late,

"There's only one fucking Running Back in existence who can win my trust and secure my confidence entirely, and he's living across the Pacific. Make no mistake about that, fucking journalist."

Walking away from the stupefied man, Hiruma became flushed with the strength of his imagination. If a time should come where he would be fated to experience another championship, he was sure it would never be the same. Ever. Seven years ago, the entire universe had appeared to be conspiring against them, the underdog. Through the harrowing trials, they had stormed on and had emerged victorious at the very end of things. It had been the kind of victory which had not been only rare but which had required all sorts of special circumstances. Whatever these unnamed circumstances might've been, that part of his life had crystallized itself in time, so that it would remain there, indelible, only to be duplicated in the mind.

No, what he had felt then would never be replicated anywhere else in the universe, a fact that was likely as unbeatable and absolute as the laws of physics.

END


End file.
